H. Robinson watched her husband trying to comfort her, then crossing his hands behind his back he went for a short turn around the outside of the cemetery. Forgive whom? The man who had hunted her father to death. Poor thing,--she did not know what a villain he had been. Women were unreasonable. Well, the same end came to all. Some day some one would be digging a grave for him, and he uneasily surveyed his ample proportions. He had had some queer pains about his heart lately. Bah! what was the good of living anyway? What was the good of anything? Why had he been following up this affair at such a breakneck pace? For money, celebrity,--a paragraph in the newspapers. Here in the solemn stillness of the night, and under the melancholy mystery of the stars, the chase seemed fruitless, the rewards worthless. He would go home to his wife. Let the poor devil sleep in peace. Why didn't they take that girl away? and he peered through the iron railing at her. He was quite near her now. "I forgive, I forgive--" he heard her articulate. "Dear father, they did not mean to make you suffer." The tearlessness of her grief was over. Her whole frame was shaken by violent weeping. Soon she would sob hard enough to tear her in two. He had seen women in crying spells before. "I guess I'll go," he muttered, and pulling out his watch he entered the cemetery and approached one of the lanterns. The grave was nearly ready. Captain White, the two Scotchmen, and the pale young man worked by turns, and the soft earth of the hillside was easy to move. Why didn't they take that girl away? and in nervous irritability he was just turning on his heel when the austere old lady spoke in his ear. "Wait--I wish to speak to you." He shrugged his wide shoulders. He guessed he could stand it if women could, and he again went outside the iron railing and took his place where no sickly gleam from the lanterns played over the moist grass. When the men went to take her father from her, the girl's sobs died away. With marvellous composure she kissed his face for the last time. "So thin, so pitifully thin," the detective heard her murmur. "You will rest now, my darling. Good-bye, good-bye," and she crossed his hands and folded them on his breast, then unwinding the silken sash from her waist she wrapped it tenderly around his head. A knot formed in the detective's throat. And now the old lady was going at it, too. She did not do the affectionate like the girl, but she took a rug that some one had brought her from the house and folded it all around the dead man's body. There was no time to have a coffin made. They must do the best they could. The rug was a costly one. The detective could see the gold threads shining in it. Foreign work probably. She was burying up a poor man's salary with that rogue.